


Let Me In

by Butyoucancallmemeg



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1980s, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, High School, Homophobic Derry (Stephen King), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Good Friend, The Losers Club Have the Shining (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29690820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butyoucancallmemeg/pseuds/Butyoucancallmemeg
Summary: “You’ve been wearing this pink monstrosity for three days straight,” Eddie tells him, and curls his fingers into the collar of the shirt in question mostly because he can’t look at Richie’s face. It’s pink with orange flowers, and he’s been throwing it on over Hanes T-shirts and ragged jeans like it’s some kind of new uniform. Eddie hates it. It makes his eyes look endlessly blue.“Nah,” Richie lies easily, “I’ve got two more in my car just like it. Can you believe they were on the clearance rack?”“You paid money for this?” Eddie scoffs, thumb rubbing over the fabric where it’s still holding on, “That’s highway robbery. I’d pay you to take it off my hands.”Richie blinks, shaking his head like he’s clearing out cobwebs even as his hands stay anchored in place, “What was that, Eds? You lost me after ‘I’d pay you to take it off’.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	Let Me In

**Author's Note:**

> CW for mentions of Sonia and shitty parents behavior, and for one (1) f-slur, used by a main character in reference to himself.
> 
> Thank You to ao3 user ghostnebula for writing a psychic losers au so good it made me LOSE my mind and talking to me abt eddie kaspbrak.

Richie’s standing on the front lawn.

It’s convenient, the way Eddie can know it without having to look. Really, it is.

He reminds himself that it’s convenient every time Richie or Bev or Bill uses it - their “Shine”, so to speak - to not-quite-talk to him in his mind when they’re apart. He  _ doesn’t  _ wonder if it’s some sort of curse that  _ It  _ put on them that’s going to bite them in the ass later. 

(Well. He doesn’t let himself wonder much, at least.)

It feels a bit like a flutter at the corner of his vision, or overhearing his own name in a conversation across the room - one moment he’s focused on his English essay, and the next his attention is pulled to the window overlooking the yard, feeling like he’s heard Richie call his name. In a way, he supposes that’s exactly what happened.

_ I’m here _ , he’s saying,  _ let me in _ .

Richie’s disappointed he doesn’t get to throw rocks at Eddie’s window like a modern-day Romeo, but the sharp spike of fear Eddie feels in his chest at the first clatter is one he’d really prefer to go without. 

Ever since The Summer He Broke His Arm, Eddie’s gotten a prickle at his neck before he hears his mother’s footfalls on the stairs, but-- 

But. 

Richie may think that three years is long enough that the rug won’t be pulled out from beneath them, but Eddie’s had an inhaler full of water since he was six. He doesn’t trust like that. 

_ Let me in! _ Richie pokes, insistent, at the connection that’s strung between them. 

Eddie marks his page with a bookmark before getting up to do just that.

Richie’s already made the climb when Eddie gets to the window. He’s holding himself up with both hands gripping the windowsill, trying and failing to toss his hair out of his face. He’s letting it grow long these days, and the wild curls frame his face in a way that would probably be untameable even if he  _ did  _ own a hairbrush, or spent any time on it outside of the shower. It gives him a perpetually-rumpled sort of look, like he’s always just rolled out of bed. 

Eddie heaves the thing open, and Richie grins up at him big and goofy, eyes lighting up behind his glasses.

“Come on, luv, give us a kiss!” Richie whispers, in an approximation of an accent, before launching his head and chest through the window to plant a wet one on Eddie’s cheek. 

“ _ Gross _ , Rich,” Eddie protests weakly, backing away. His face flushes hot. 

Richie finagles his knobbly limbs through the tight gap with a grin, as Eddie wipes his face off on his sleeve, and lands softly on the floor inside. 

Richie knows it makes Eddie nervous, having him here. Maybe he knows thanks to The Summer Eddie Broke His Arm and their subsequent development of benignly-useful-ish superpowers - or maybe Richie’s just spent enough nights clambering in through Eddie’s window and enough nights listening to Eddie talk and enough nights driving Eddie home early for his curfew to know that Sonia Kaspbrak is not a woman to be messed with. 

At the very least, she’s not a woman anyone would want to be caught by - especially in her son’s bedroom, especially at night, and  _ especially  _ when the anyone in question is Richie Tozier. Eddie has been forced to bite his tongue through rants about _ that dirty Tozier boy  _ since long before he’d even figured out what  _ dirty  _ was a euphemism for.

Richie knows all this, so he stays quiet, but he doesn’t let that keep him from eliminating the distance between them the moment he’s inside. He steps right into Eddie’s space, lets his hands fall right on the waist of Eddie’s flannel pajama pants like they were meant to live there. He smiles down at Eddie, big and goofy and sweet. 

“Hey, Spaghetti,” he murmurs, low and fond. The light from Eddie’s desk lamp casts a war m glow over him, glints off his glasses, catches the planes of his face, and Eddie feels warm all over. He has to look away. 

“You’ve been wearing this pink monstrosity for three days straight,” Eddie tells him, and curls his fingers into the collar of the shirt in question mostly because he can’t look at Richie’s face. It’s pink with orange flowers, and he’s been throwing it on over Hanes T-shirts and ragged jeans like it’s some kind of new uniform. Eddie hates it. It makes his eyes look endlessly blue. 

“Nah,” Richie lies easily, “I’ve got two more in my car just like it. Can you believe they were on the clearance rack?” 

“You paid money for this?” Eddie scoffs, thumb rubbing over the fabric where it’s still holding on, “That’s highway robbery. I’d pay you to take it off my hands.” 

Richie blinks, shaking his head like he’s clearing out cobwebs even as his hands stay anchored in place, “What was that, Eds? You lost me after ‘I’d pay you to take it off’.” 

Eddie snorts, making to push him off with a hand to the chest. Richie counters by scooping him in until their bodies are flush and dipping down to press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Cute,” he tells Eddie. In the dim light and the amplified silence, it’s the sweetest thing Eddie’s ever heard. 

“Cute, cute, cute.”

He draws the line when Richie’s hand comes up to pinch at his cheeks, and shoves him away. Richie lets himself be pushed, stumbling back with a laugh. 

“I have an English essay.” Eddie reminds him pointedly. He’d told all the Losers today at lunch - barring Bev up in Portland, of course - for exactly this reason. He needs to not be distracted. 

Richie, distraction personified, bobs his head easily and shrugs a shoulder. 

“Alright,” Richie agrees, even though Eddie hasn’t asked anything of him, “What are we writing about?” 

_ We _ . 

His too-long hair spills into his face, over his glasses, and he jerks his head to toss it out of the way. It doesn’t work - never does. Eddie lets him try one more time before reaching up impatiently to brush it to the side himself. 

Distracting. See? This is exactly what Eddie  _ didn’t  _ want to do. 

Still, Eddie doesn’t send him away. He just slides back into his desk chair and tosses Richie his copy of Macbeth. He scrambles to catch it against his chest. 

“I have to pick a soliloquy.” Eddie says. 

“What, just any of them?” 

Richie toes off his Chucks, nudging them with a socked foot until they’re next to each other by the window before sprawling on his stomach on Eddie’s bed the wrong-way-around, feet kicked up and crossed at the ankle to pre-empt Eddie’s rant about putting his feet on the pillows. 

God knows Richie does it plenty anyways - he likes nothing more than to see Eddie riled up - but tonight, there are more important things to do. Chin in hand, he flips the book open and paws indelicately through the pages. 

He’s going to crease it.

“You’re gonna crease it,” Eddie complains, making no move to take it back. 

“Oh, you should definitely do the ‘unsex me’ speech.” Richie decides. “Lady Macbeth is like, ‘take off my tits, _stop up my_ _passages--’”_ at this, he looks up to waggle his eyebrows. 

“She  _ definitely  _ doesn’t say that.” Eddie says flatly, standing up and circling the bed to lean over and look. 

“Move over,” He commands, prodding Richie’s shoulder, and Richie shifts to make space on the bed. Eddie climbs up beside him, pressing close to be able to see.

In the corner of his eye, he can see Richie turn his head, and Eddie bites his tongue to keep from turning to look back. 

“ _ Where _ does it say that?” Eddie demands, forcing his gaze to stay sightlessly on the page. He’s still thinking about Richie’s eyes on him. With the weight of his stare on Eddie’s face, this old, stupid book could say anything on it, and Eddie wouldn’t be able to read it long enough to know.

Richie turns his head back. 

“Right here!” Richie insists, pointing, “‘unsex me here’, and down here, ‘stop up the access and passage’?” He raises his eyebrows significantly. 

Eddie squints at the book. “To  _ remorse _ .” He points out, mostly to be contrary, “And there’s nothing about  _ ‘tits’  _ in here, you freak.” 

“It’s implied! I told you when you started this thing last week, Eds, Shakespeare’s like, the Dick Joke King.” 

“I thought you were just saying it to fuck with me!” Eddie defends, snatching up the book to re-read the passage. 

“Come on, Eds, a little trust, please? I’m taking it seriously, promise.” Eddie narrows his eyes. 

“Besides,” Richie continues, contradicting himself immediately, “I would never lie to you about dick jokes. Come on. ‘greatness  _ thrust  _ upon them’?” He twitches his hips into the mattress and sticks his tongue into his cheek, like maybe Eddie wouldn’t get the joke without more context.

Eddie feels the bed dip beneath him as Richie moves, and bites his tongue.  _ Distracting _ . 

He reads the page again. Tries to, at least. Tries very hard. Richie’s pressed against him all the way from hip to knee, a warm strip of contact. 

He tries again. Then, when it continues to just be  _ words _ , he takes a deep, loud inhale through his nose, and puts the book down. He has to fight his eyes to read even a single line. Richie just  _ knows  _ this stuff. He pulls A’s in English even when he skips - like it’s  _ easy _ . 

“I hate this.” He tells Richie, conversationally. Richie bumps their shoulders together. 

“I know, Eds. S’why I’m here. Gimme the book.” 

Eddie’s not even  _ holding  _ the book, but he picks it up long enough to toss it away from him. It falls to the floor, and Richie has to stretch halfway to the floor just to reach it where it lands. He thumbs back to the right page. 

When Richie clears his throat, Eddie braces for a joke. Instead, he says, “Just listen.” 

And then he reads. He starts in a Voice, from the top of the page, making Lady Macbeth high-pitched and breathy, and giving her servant a squeaky whimper. When he gets to the monologue, the Lady Macbeth voice starts to slip away from him, but it’s less distracting that way anyways. Eddie can focus on the words. 

It’s probably the longest passage Eddie’s made it through in his whole read of the book - he trips and lingers over every stumbling-block word and phrase, squinting at it for meaning until he forgets what came before. Now, he’s getting the whole picture. 

It’s infuriating, the way Richie makes these things make sense. It’s especially infuriating when, after Eddie spends a beat mulling it over, Richie can just  _ sense  _ that he’s won, and breaks into that goofy, adorable smile. He’s always so fucking smug. 

“But why the fuck would that stop her from killing somebody?” Eddie argues. Richie shrugs. 

“It’s a metaphor, or whatever. Plus, she’s the one who wants to kill people. Macbeth only does it ‘cause she’s hot and she tells him to.”

He raises a significant eyebrow at Eddie. Eddie ignores it. 

“Am I going to get an A if I write that? Or is it just going to make Mrs. Phillips call my mom.”

“Hopefully both!” Richie quips. “‘A rockin’ bod makes a man do crazy things’ -- how’s that for a thesis? Ooh, make that your title.” 

“That’s number one on the list of things I’m  _ not  _ gonna to fucking do,” Eddie tells him. Richie snorts. 

“Hope  _ I’m  _ not on that list.” He leers, and Eddie turns to him to fire back, which is a mistake. Richie’s got his particularly-pleased-with-himself smile on, the one that quirks up more on one side, and the light from Eddie’s desk lamp is casting warm gold over his face. Eddie loses his train of thought on the line of Richie’s soft cheek.

“You’re not.” Eddie tells him. He means to say something funny, to shoot something back, but it spills out quietly instead. 

Richie’s eyebrows fly up, and he blinks, taken aback. Richie’s always surprised when Eddie talks like that - like he doesn’t expect the world to treat him softly. Eddie thinks that’s why Richie acts how he does: a brash exterior that covers up how soft he really is inside.

The secret, the real secret, is that Eddie’s always known exactly how to make Richie stop talking.

Well. Maybe the real secret is that Eddie never actually  _ wants  _ him to.

“Well shit, Spaghetti, I guess I gotta go down the hall and tell Mrs. K it’s over.” 

Alright. Sometimes Eddie wants him to. 

There’s dirt under Richie’s fingernails when Eddie takes his hand, because he’s gross, but he tastes like wintermint when their lips finally meet, because he knows Eddie still gets nervous about germs. Richie twists, pulls Eddie in by the waist until they’re facing each other on their sides, pressed close. His tongue darts along the curve of Eddie’s lip. 

When Eddie pulls back from the kiss, Richie’s mouth chases after. 

“I have to work.” Eddie tells him. He’s trying for firmness, but he can hear the twist of regret in his own voice. Richie throws himself back on the bed, on his back now, feet on the pillows and arms splayed out.

“Ugh.” 

“Will you--?” Eddie starts. Bites down on his lip. He looks at Richie on the bed, and Richie picks up his head to look back.

“What, are you trying to get rid of me already? Not a chance, Eds.” He showily settles himself further into the bed, and throws his arms behind his head. 

Later, Eddie falls asleep with Richie wrapped around him. He wakes up to an empty bed.

  
  


\---

  
  


No one really questions how Richie seems to always be  _ around _ . None of them think,  _ doesn’t Richie have to go home?  _

During the week, the Losers mostly gather in sub-groups - kept apart by curfews and part-time jobs and homework and clubs. Maybe that’s the reason he manages to avoid raising suspicion for as long as he does. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Bill finds him draped over the clubhouse hammock reading back-issues of X-Men, one leg thrown over the side and the other propped against the post. They’re all getting too big for it now, even Eddie, but Richie’s persistent. He’ll keep using it until they leave for college or it snaps apart under the weight of him yanking a squawking Eddie down beside him. 

“Hey, Richie.” 

Richie looks up, face splitting into a lit-up grin when he catches Bill’s eye. 

“Big Bill! What’s cracking? You didn’t come down here to sulk, did you?” 

He certainly did, and they both know it. “No, wait. I bet you came to jerk off!” He nearly interrupts himself in his haste to course-correct. Then, before Bill can protest, “Gross, man, we hang out here.” He complains. “ _ Unsanitary _ .” 

He doesn’t do a full Eddie impression, but he pronounces the word with distinct care, giving the vague sense of a child parroting a word they’re not sure the meaning of. 

“Beep-beep, Rich.” Bill snorts. He tosses down his backpack, and Richie tosses his comic aside carelessly. 

They fall into their usual easy banter - school, Bev, whether they’d rather have Shadowcat’s powers or Nightcrawler’s. They’re the same well-tread conversational paths, made new again by Richie’s jokes and Bill’s earnest and dumbfounding ability to treat even the most tired of topics like they’re new and fascinating.

In a universe just a few degrees off from this one, Bill’s the most popular kid in school. There’s a steady, easy charisma in how he carries himself, and he’s always got something interesting to say. Maybe it was the stutter, or the Summer Eddie Broke His Arm, or maybe it was something else entirely that kept him from realizing his full potential, but Richie counts himself lucky for it, whatever it was. Instead of rolling with Victor Criss or captaining the baseball team, Bill spends his afternoon kicking Richie in the shins for scoffing at his opinion on Storm for the dozenth time, and avoids going home to his too-quiet house until the sun starts sinking in the sky. The clubhouse gets dim and blue-toned by degrees. 

Finally, after probably too long, Bill dusts himself off, and stands up. Dinner at the Denbroughs is at six o’clock sharp.

“See you l-later, Rich?” Bill says, and Richie waves him off genially, but doesn’t unsettle himself from his spot. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Some days, he makes a nuisance of himself in the library with Ben and Mike, because both of them are too polite to ask him if he’s got anywhere better to be. Others, he goes birdwatching with Stan, pointing out all the birds in the park and naming them after famous people until Stan rolls his eyes. If he drives Stan home afterwards, Mrs. Uris invariably asks him to stay for dinner, and it’s almost as much of a draw as goading Stan into pulling out his Bird Book. 

He picks Eddie up from track practice, and drops him off before curfew, and sneaks in his window  _ just  _ infrequently enough to keep Mrs. K off his scent. 

He slings popcorn at the Aladdin, and goes swimming in the quarry, and makes the drive up to Portland to keep Bev company on rare Saturday nights when Bill and Ben are both unable to host. 

He’s just keeping busy. Nothing’s wrong. 

On Saturday morning, he picks Eddie up bright and early so he can sneak in a run around the empty school track. Richie watches from the bleachers and listens to music with his headphones slung awkwardly over just one ear while Eddie, in his running shorts, gets himself all  _ sweaty _ .

About halfway through Eddie’s run, Richie broadcasts as loud as he can manage exactly what he thinks of Eddie in his little red shorts, and Eddie trips over his own feet, landing in a heap.

“You’re an asshole, Richie!” he calls, dusting himself off. 

“You love it!” Richie hollers back, unrepentant. When Eddie gives him the finger, he cackles so hard he almost falls through the slats. 

He works noon to close at the theater again, and pokes at his friends through the probably-turtle-induced mind-meld connection they all have until he divines where to meet them. 

Eddie and Stan don’t like to use it, but Richie’s never been one to look a gift clown in the razor-sharp mouth. Reparations, he figures. Payback for services rendered. 

Tonight, they’re apparently piling into Ben’s living room. Ben’s mother is a pushover when it comes to hosting, overwhelmed with joy even after three long years that her boy has friends. 

Mike and Stan’s cars are both already parked in the driveway when Richie arrives, late and still reeking of butter. He swings around to his trunk, shucking off his work uniform and bowtie right there in the driveway and pawing through the clothes stashed there for a suitable alternative. 

When he’s slung his jacket - leather, a gift from Bev that he’ll never, ever part with - over his most garish yellow shirt, he jogs up the steps and gives Ben a brain poke. 

The door swings open. 

“Benjamin Handsome, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Richie crows, just to make Ben blush - the kid is gratifyingly easy to fluster. One day, if Richie has anything to say about it, he’ll stop getting that disbelieving look on his face whenever someone implies they like the look of him. 

“Hey, Richie,” Ben says, rolling his eyes, and Richie pushes inside, shucking his coat and kicking off his shoes with gusto. 

He throws himself into the too-small space between Eds and Mike on the couch. 

“How was work?” Mike asks, holding his soda up and out of Richie’s way as Richie wriggles himself into a comfortable spot.

“Teen Wolf continues to rake in the bucks,” Richie reports, “Michael J. Fox continues to dunk while covered in fur. I, personally, continue to want to try car surfing.”

A chorus of ‘no’s erupts from all sides. 

“One day,” Richie sighs, wistful. 

  
  


\---

  
  


“Heading home?” Bill asks, the next morning as they’re all piled in Ben’s foyer, getting ready to leave. It’s easy, idle. It’s not meant to catch Richie off-guard. Probably he’s wondering if he can bum a ride home - which he can, obviously. It still makes Richie stutter-stop, halfway through donning his jacket. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Stan frown.

“Might drive around a while,” Richie hedges. Then, waggling his eyebrows, “Wanna take a  _ ride  _ with me Big Bill? Take Ol’ Mrs. K for a spin?”

He shoves his tongue into his cheek and waggles his eyebrows. Distract, distract, distract.

“That’s still a stupid name for your car.” Eddie says, as is his duty every time Richie mentions it.

“It’s romantic!” Richie protests, “My first car after my first love!”

He swings around, abandoning the task of shoving his feet into shoes to put a faux-serious hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Don’t be jealous, Eds. What me and your mom have, it doesn’t make what we have any less special.”

Eddie shrugs him off, rolling his eyes. 

  
  


\---

  
  


Richie’s tired these days. He yawns his way through Honors English with Bill. Ben catches him dozing in Calculus and has to lob a paper ball at his head. He pours himself into a seat at lunch and drops off with his head angled awkwardly onto Eddie’s shoulder for the whole forty-five minutes.

The Losers exchange looks over his snoring head.

“Has he-- s-said anything to you guys?” Bill asks softly, eyes on Richie’s sleep-slackened face. His mouth is open a little. It makes him look boyish, Eddie thinks. Innocent. 

Eddie bites his lip, shakes his head. Richie’s been coming over more often, and he stays to sleep now instead of leaving when Eddie goes to bed, but that’s - that’s just their relationship evolving, or something. It’s the forward motion of Eddie-and-Richie. 

Right?

Richie’s been sneaking in Eddie’s bedroom window for years. The kissing and the flirting and the sweet way that Richie holds him, those came after. Well - the kissing came after. The holding came after. Richie’s been flirting with Eddie since before either of them knew quite what flirting was. 

“He’s been staying at my place, sometimes.” Stan admits, and it’s the somber way he says it that makes Eddie sit up and take notice. “During the week, I mean. Just on the couch.” 

Bill’s jaw tightens. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Me too.” 

Fuck. Eddie swallows. “Me, too.” He says softly. As one, they look to Richie again. A serious silence settles over the table.

They’ve all had their fair share of sleep troubles. Distance doesn’t exactly make the heart grow fonder of killer clowns and sewer drains and bone-deep cold-blooded terror. 

Last week, when Eddie woke up scared and sweating, Richie woke up right along with him. He was so absurdly grateful, at that moment, that Richie was there to pull Eddie back against his chest and put a hand over his heart and murmur pleasant, reassuring nonsense until his heartbeat slowed and his breaths came easy again.

Has Richie been doing the same thing? Was he suffering in silence, while Eddie snored on inches away? It’s unnerving, how easy it would be to believe. 

Last month, Stan was so rattled by a nightmare that he’d actually used the shine, poking Richie awake to come pick him up around 3 am. Richie told Eddie about it the next morning - that they’d driven around and listened to the Smiths, that Stan seemed better but they should all keep an eye on him for the next few days - and then he apologized for being late to pick Eddie up and cracked a joke about his mother. 

Eddie had just let the subject drop. 

Eddie digs an elbow into Richie’s side, but only as the bell rings and he can’t put it off any longer. 

“Sleep at night, asshole, I’m not your pillow.” He gruffs, a frown creasing his features. He’s watching Richie carefully, now. Has he been missing something? Has Richie been keeping something from them? From him?

”Nah, I’ve got your mom for that,” Richie says dazedly, blinking away sleep. It’s not his best work. When he looks at Eddie, though, that fond little smile perks his face back up, and Eddie feels his chest warm, the tension easing.

“Your bony-ass shoulder’s a close second though, Spagheds, don’t you worry.” 

“Is it--” Bill cuts himself off pointedly, eyebrowing at Richie as he gathers his backpack. 

Richie’s face briefly shadows, but he looks Bill in his worried eyes and shakes his head. Good. That’s good. 

“Just Reg’ler Deg’ler tired, Billyboy. I was up all night making sweet sweet love to Eddie’s dear ol’ mum. You know how it is.” 

“Must be why she seemed so disappointed this morning,” Eddie remarks, shouldering his backpack.

“Oho!” Richie crows, “Spaghetti gets off a good one!”

  
  


\---

  
  


In hindsight, Eddie will be able to track the moment Richie realizes what’s about to happen. Stan reaches the door of the car, and Richie stops walking, stops twirling his keys, braces for impact. It happens like a beat from a fucking sitcom: Richie cringes, and the door opens, and a bed pillow comes tumbling out to land at Stan’s feet. 

There’s a blanket back there, too. Three heads lean in unison to peer into the backseat of Richie’s Corolla, and they all spot the rumpled way it’s been set up like a makeshift bed. A cardboard box of records and tapes and a scattered pile of polaroids are shoved into the footwell. 

“R-Richie…” Bill says, eyes wide. 

Stan’s face is stony. It’s unsurprised. It’s sad. 

Eddie can’t take his eyes off the pillow on the ground. For a second, he feels like he’s reading Shakespeare - like the words are all there on the page, but he’s still struggling to make sense of what it means. All the stumbling-block words and phrases are Richie’s three-days-old shirt and his couch-surfing tendencies and the way he stuck Stan’s uneaten apple from lunch in his pocket yesterday without a word. 

He wants Richie to read it out loud, sure-voiced and pressed warm against him, until it all makes sense again. Instead, the chill of evening springs goosebumps on Eddie’s arms, and Richie, for once, is both far away and silent. 

“Richie.” He says. It’s percolating, in his brain, the pieces assembling themselves into an appalling picture. Richie’s been re-wearing clothes, he’s been falling asleep in school. He’s been sleeping at Bill’s and Stan’s and Eddie’s and, apparently, in his car, and Eddie can’t remember the last time Richie went home. He’s straining himself trying to remember the last time Richie even  _ mentioned  _ home. 

“Have you been sleeping in your car?” He asks, low and even and only a little bit accusatory. He can’t be, part of Eddie’s mind insists. Eddie would know, if he was. Eddie, who he talks to every day, and drives home, and sleeps next to - Eddie who he  _ loves _ \- Eddie would know, right? 

Silence rings for a beat, and Eddie’s stomach twists. 

“Richie,” Eddie says again - insistent.  _ Please say I’m reading this wrong _ .

Richie hasn’t said anything yet. He’s looking at Eddie with wide, guilty eyes - like he’s the one to  _ blame  _ for something here. Maybe he is. Eddie hates the way he’s standing there, looking caught in a trap, when it’s Eddie who didn’t know - who never even  _ asked _ . 

“Are you--” He feels like he’s pressing on a bruise “-- _ Living _ ? In your  _ car _ ?”

And Richie bites down on his bottom lip hard enough that Eddie can see it going white. It’s as good as a yes. 

“I-- Seriously? Did you-- Did you run away? Get kicked out? Did something happen with Maggie? With your Dad?” 

Richie flinches, almost-imperceptibly, but Eddie’s looking at him hard. Eddie couldn’t look away if he tried. If Richie’s car was on fire. If Eddie  _ himself  _ was on fire. 

“Jesus fuck, Rich.” Eddie swears. “Why didn’t I  _ know  _ that?” 

Richie shifts uncomfortably, shoulders hunching. “I--”

“You’re in my room three nights a fucking  _ week _ , Richie!” Eddie interrupts, eyes wide. He doesn’t decide to be yelling, but it comes out loud, like one side of an argument with no one. 

“Eds--” Richie starts, sounding caught out, wrong-footed, but Eddie holds up a finger. 

“Shut up, Richie, I’ve gotta be  _ fucking  _ mad for a second. Hang on.”

And he is. He’s mad at Richie, for feeling bad about keeping it from him and doing it anyways, and at himself, for every time he let Richie brush off his concern, every time he didn’t  _ ask _ , and he’s mad at every single person who taught the stupid love of his stupid life that he wasn’t allowed to _ need things _ . Why didn’t Richie  _ tell  _ him? 

Richie shuts his mouth. Swallows. Nods. Beside him, Bill and Stan glance at each other, but Eddie’s focused on Richie, on the contrite twist of his mouth. 

“I can’t fucking believe you! I see you every day! You-- You’ve just been _not-telling-me_ , every day? You’re driving me home for my mother’s stupid fucking _asinine_ _goddamn curfews_ , and I don’t get to _know_?” His voice rises sharply in pitch, “That you’re _living_ in your _car_? You just get to eat your stupid breathmints for me, and take your shoes off, and explain Macbeth and I--”

He flexes his hands, and swallows. Every day, Richie  _ does  _ things for Eddie. He carves a space in his own chaos so that Eddie has a place. He trusts Richie. They trust  _ each other _ . 

“I don’t get to fucking  _ know _ ?” Eddie’s voice breaks. Fuck. He breathes out hard through his nose, and he knows he’s wearing all the hurt right on his face. 

“I thought,” he says, ragged, “we were a goddamn  _ team _ , Richie. You and me, and all of us.”

“We’re a team, Eds!” Richie protests, because he never could stay quiet for long, “Of course we’re a team. You and me, and all of us.”

He says it the same way Eddie did.  _ You and me _ , then  _ all of us _ . 

“Then  _ what _ , Richie?” Eddie demands, “What? You thought ‘cause it wasn’t a killer clown in the sewers we wouldn’t give a shit about you?”

That’s exactly what he thought, he realizes belatedly. It takes the wind out of his sails, all at once. 

“We’re a  _ team _ .” He repeats, with feeling. Takes a measured, calming breath. Looks at Richie’s dumb face again, his too-shiny eyes reflecting the dying evening light.

“He’s right.” Bill says. Eddie startles. He’d half-forgotten Bill was there. Really, anything and anyone could have been around them and Eddie might not have noticed, for how close he was watching Richie’s face. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, really,” Stan agrees, deadpan.

Richie digs in his pocket, pulls out a dented pack of cigarettes. He cuts a sideways glance back to Eddie before he pulls one out, and Eddie knows without either of them saying a word that he’s asking, checking in. If Eddie told him no, he’d put them away. For Eddie, he’d put them away. 

Stupid, self-sacrificing fucking  _ bastard _ . Okay, maybe he’s still a little angry. 

“What happened?” Eddie asks. He meets Richie’s eyes. 

Richie lights up, takes a drag. His hand shakes a little. 

“Ol’ Went decided his house is a fag-free zone,” Richie shrugs, and Eddie feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. 

Richie blows out smoke. “I don’t even know how he knows. He might’ve just guessed right.” 

“Why d-didn’t you s-say anything?” Bill presses, eyes wide, but Eddie thinks he’s got the math down.

Richie-math isn’t like real math, but Eddie’s been watching him keep score with it for a while, now. It’s the asking, that Richie doesn’t do well. It’s the  _ needing _ . He can invite himself onto Bill’s living room couch, make himself at home in Eddie’s bed, and he’ll do it with a joke and a smile. He can’t say, “Please”, though. He can’t open himself up to “no” like that. 

Richie takes up the space he wants to, but he’s always poised for the other shoe to drop. 

Right now, though, his shoulders are curled in, and he’s hunched around his cigarette, free hand shoved in his pocket. Trying not to take up any space at all. 

He shrugs. “Didn’t know how. Didn’t wanna--” He cuts himself off. Shrugs again. Richie’s most unfortunate habit, probably, is the way that he only ever shuts up when nobody wants him to. When Eddie doesn’t want him to. Maybe Eddie just never wants him to. 

“You’re an idiot, Trashmouth.” Stan tells him, flat and honest. It breaks the tension, and Richie looks up at him, quirking his lips in grateful amusement. 

“I’m told it’s part of my charm.” He replies wryly. Bill plucks the cigarette out of Richie’s hand, pulling up next to him to bump their shoulders together as he takes a drag and hands it back.

Stan wrinkles his nose at Bill, who shrugs an unrepentant shoulder. Big Bill could never get away with a full-blown habit, but he’s not strictly opposed like Eddie and Stan. 

“A-are you gonna tell the o-others?” Bill asks kindly. Richie pulls a face.

“Are you eating enough?” Stan asks pointedly. Richie pulls another face. 

“Of course not.” Eddie finds himself saying, fondness creeping into his tone right alongside the sharp exasperation, “He’s spending all his money on cigarettes and gas.” 

And Saturday morning coffee at the diner after Eddie’s done at the track, and the vodka he somehow obtained a few weeks ago for their hangout at Ben’s, and the pizza they all threw in for at Bill’s the week after that. Eddie’s stomach twists. 

“Don’t forget wining and dining your mom,” Richie adds, glib. “That always puts a dent in the savings, but she puts out like a dream.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. 

“You’re disgusting.” He informs Richie.

“Are you going to tell the others, Richie, or am I going to have to look Mike in the face and tell him myself?” Stan demands, impatient. He’s always been better than Eddie at keeping on-task. 

“You think  _ I _ wanna do it?” Richie grimaces dramatically at the thought. “Jesus, what if he cries?”

“That’s why you d-d-didn’t want to s-s-say anything, huh, T-T-Trashmouth?” 

“You’re damn lucky  _ Eddie  _ didn’t cry, Trashmouth.” Stan says severely, and Eddie would be offended if not for the way it sobers Richie in an instant.

He presses his lips together, mouth in a thin white line, and looks at Eddie. Flicks his cigarette to the ground. 

“M’sorry, Eds.” He says. He meets Eddie blow for blow, quip for quip, shot for shot, but he’s always been the first to relent, in the end. Eddie’s too stubborn not to dig his heels in, even past the point of no return. Richie’s never had that problem. 

Eddie closes the space between them until his shoes are nearly between Richie’s own, and he has to crane his head up to look at him. Bill, beside Richie, takes a half-step to the side. 

“You should be.” Eddie tells him. Richie’s hands drop to his waist, to the place where they live, and Eddie feels something in his chest ease. There’s smoke on Richie’s breath, and it’s clinging to his shirt collar, and Eddie’ll never admit the way the familiar scent of Richie and cigarettes makes him feel. It’s hard not to feel it, when Richie’s looking down at him like this. 

Eddie wants to shake him. Wants to grab him by the collar and pull. _ Let me take care of you back _ . 

Stan and Bill, wisely, shove Richie’s shit into the footwell and wait in the car. 

“You’re gonna catch something from that pillow, now, Rich.” Eddie murmurs. 

Richie huffs a laugh. “Now?”

“It’s been on the ground. It’s unsanitary.” 

“I think I’ll be alright, Eds.” 

“You won’t.” Eddie insists. Then, “Come home with me tonight.” 

Come home with me every night, Eddie wants to say. His mind spits a dozen reasons, automatically: It’s getting colder at night. It’s  _ certainly  _ not safe, what if someone broke in? What if he parks somewhere illegal and gets arrested? It can’t be comfortable back there, either, not when Richie’s six feet and then some. He’ll fuck up his back if he does it too much, and who’d pay for him to see a chiropractor about it? 

Richie searches his face carefully. He’s checking that Eddie means it. Like -- like this, of all things, would be the straw that broke them.

“Because of the pillow?” he asks. Eddie could kill him. 

“Because I love you, dipshit.” Eddie says, and Richie goes practically boneless at the words. “But I’ll wash your fucking pillowcase, too.” 

Richie doesn’t sweep him into a kiss, because he’s a smart boy and he knows he’s not quite out of the doghouse yet, but he ducks his head down a little, asking permission, and Eddie presses up onto his toes to close the gap. 

Eddie brushes against Richie’s mind, a soft nudge. _ I’m here, Richie. Let me in, sometimes. _

He can’t send anything as specific as that, hasn’t practiced like Richie and Mike do, but he hopes it gets across a little anyways. Richie’s lips turn up against his mouth, and his fingers grip tighter into Eddie’s hips. 

He knows well enough. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me at thebitchriarchy.tumblr.com and get ready for this to become a Stranger Things crossover in part 2 <3 sorry folks im going thru something


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